


Pick Your Poison

by disturbedbydesign



Series: Deviance [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Car Sex, Drug Use, F/M, LOTS OF COCAINE!, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disturbedbydesign/pseuds/disturbedbydesign
Summary: Hop has a one-night stand with a bartender.





	

 

Hopper’s at the bar again. Not The Hideaway—the other one. The Hideaway is a cop bar. Not strictly a cop bar, mind you, but it’s where the Good Guys go to drown their sorrows. On the other side of this very small town sits Harley’s: the haunt of the Bad People who don’t want to be seen doing whatever it is that they’re doing. If there were train tracks in Hawkins, Harley’s would be on the wrong side of them.

The first time Hawkins’ new Chief of Police walked into the bar everyone in the place tensed up. The regulars were ready to fight or flee, but the Chief spoke to no one, got shitfaced by himself in the corner, and after a few hours worth of Schlitz and well whiskey, he made his way to the parking lot to vomit in a trashcan—unassumingly, and with dignity, like a Real Fucking Man. There is an unspoken code: what goes on at Harley’s stays at Harley’s. And so Jim Hopper was Bad Cop by night and Good Cop by day, and it suited everyone just fine.

Hopper has to count the days on his fingers but his original estimate was correct: today marks two weeks straight of drowning the end of his days in Harley’s liquor. He knows this is no longer a normal and reasonable response to his grief. He knows he’s spiraling out of control again and he should clean up and dry out. He has no delusions about the damage he is doing to himself but self-awareness isn’t nearly enough to make him stop—not anymore.

To put it plainly, it all just hurts too much.

Part of the reason Hop moved back to Hawkins was to get his shit together, but it’s been a few months now and things have gone from bad to worse. He’s on the verge of forgetting what it’s like to be a fully functional person—responsible, one of the Good Guys. And what’s worse is that it’s almost liberating to care about nothing and no one, including (and perhaps especially) himself.

His hand is shaking, hidden in his coat pocket. He needs a drink and soon. He takes a seat at the bar and nods at the bartender. She knows the drill: Schlitz and whiskey, and keep em comin.

Jill is working tonight. He’s always liked Jill, ever since she was a gangly kid sniffing around his crew back in the day—when they were the Gods of Hawkins High, untouchable, and nothing bad was ever going to happen to them. Hop was always nice to her then but she was far too young to be hanging around. He’d told her so on more than one occasion and she eventually she got the hint. After graduation he didn’t see her for years until a few months ago, when he walked into Harley’s for the first time and saw her slinging drinks for the town trash. She’d smiled at him, and poured him a whiskey with a beer back before he’d even reached the bar.

***

“Evenin, Chief,” she says. “Beer or whiskey or both?”

Hopper smiles back at her. “You know.”

Jill grabs a can of Schlitz from the icebox and slides it down the bar with a smile. While she’s pouring Hopper’s whiskey, she wonders if she can get him in the sack tonight. Hop’s been flirting with her for the past few days, which is a nice change from the silent, brooding drunky thing he was doing for a while. She can’t really blame him, though. She’d heard what happened back in Indianapolis. Everyone had. Something like that in a town this small? The poor guy brought all of it with him. He never really had a chance.

Tonight he’s acting different. Not as world-weary somehow. In the periphery she sees him pop a Dexedrine. It’s not the first time she’s caught him medicating himself on the sly but Jill doesn’t judge. She’s no stranger to that particular variety of self-help. At this very moment she’s got a vial of coke burning a hole in the back pocket of her jeans. It’s 9:30 and she’s already dying for a taste, but it’s not a problem yet—not really. She tells herself she only uses on worknights to make it through till close.

She almost believes it, too.

Jill hands Hopper his whiskey and leans over the bar. She adjusts herself just so to make sure her moneymakers are on display. She knows her angles. She knows what the people want. She also knows he’ll look, and he does.

“This round’s on me, Chief.”

“You don’t have to do that.” His voice is especially rough today, like he’s been yelling. Jill wonders what he looks like when he’s that kind of angry.

“A small thank you from the community,” she says, “for all the servin’ and protectin’ you do.”

“Just doing my job,” he says. “But thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance be trying to butter me up, would you Jill? Maybe because that liquor license of yours expired three months ago?”

“It’s not my liquor license. I don’t own this dump.”

“Well how bout you tell the boss man to get on it, alright? I can put it off, but only for so long.”

“So,” she says, “you’re a cop tonight?”

“I’m always a cop, just not always a good one.”

She laughs and says, “give a holler when you’re empty,” and then she walks away.

Her hips are swaying probably more than they should be but Jill doesn’t care about putting on a show for the Chief. She’s already got a reputation—one she earned a long time ago—and even though she hasn’t been laid in months, in Hawkins that kind of thing never really goes away. Jill Lambert, Town Tramp. She accepts it because she doesn’t have the cash to move somewhere far away and reinvent herself, like Hopper did, or at least tried to do.

She wasn’t always a bad girl. She used to be awkward and too tall for her age and flat as a board on both sides. She looks down the bar at Hopper and remembers how it felt to watch him and his friends screwing around in the high school parking lot, the prettiest girls on their arms, on their way to some party or bonfire or other Cool Kid Thing that she would never be invited to. Back then it seemed like there was a lifetime between middle school and high school but now the five-year difference between them seems like nothing. They are both past their prime. Numbers are irrelevant.

He’s almost empty and that was quick even for him. She approaches with a refill. She doesn’t need to be asked.

***

She’s not unattractive, he thinks, just not in mint condition. Jill is worn and used—like an old leather couch—and she looks much older than she is. It’s not a nice thing to think about a woman and he’d never say it out loud but it’s true. The bad red dye-job, the overdone makeup, thin but in that drugged out way—it’s not a look that anyone can pull off but she owns it in a way that’s attractive to him. At the very least, it’s honest. And no offense to her but right now just about any hole will do. During the course of his first round of drinks Hopper has decided that, in addition to flushing it out with booze, on this particular evening he wants to fuck his pain away. It’s Wednesday—the almost almost weekend—and he feels like tying one on and seeing what happens next.

He knows that Jill will most likely fuck him if he asks. At the very least, she’ll blow him. On the off chance that she’s not interested, Hopper is confident he can find someone to get him off. It certainly hasn’t been a problem for him so far. Every couple of weeks he gets that urge and finds a warm, wet place to stay a while. Then he moves on— sometimes after a couple of times, but it’s mostly one-night stands. Hopper knows that leaving a trail of angry women in a small town is probably not the brightest idea but it’s Hawkins and he’s the goddamn chief of police. If he wants to fuck the entire town, it’s his town to fuck.

He’s Jim Fucking Hopper and he’s the fucking man.

Jill says, “Here you go, Chief,” and puts a fresh beer and double whiskey on the bar in front of him.

“Thanks, doll.”

She smiles wide. He thinks to himself that she has distractingly great tits and tries to listen while she’s talking but it’s harder than it should be. He’s not that drunk. Not yet.

“So,” she says, “how is it being back in Hawkins? I thought you were smarter than to come back to this shit heap.”

“I wasn’t planning on it but, you know, life…” He trails off and takes a monster swig of his beer, then he lights a cigarette. “You’re lookin’ real good these days, Jill. You doing that Jazzercise shit or something?”

“More like ‘or something.’”

Hopper knows it’s the coke that keeps her trim but he wants her to know that he’s looking. He also wants her to know that he knows she keeps a stash at work. He’s not trying to bust her for it; he just wants a taste. The pills aren’t hitting him like they used to and he wants to feel alive tonight. He also can’t get the thought of snorting coke off her tits out of his head, so he may as well just go for it.

He blows a cloud of smoke into the air.

“So are you gonna cop to it or are you gonna make me frisk you?”

***

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chief.”

She knows exactly what he’s talking about: he wants some. At the very least, he wants her drugs, but she thinks he might want something more.

“C’mon, Jill.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“Can’t say that I do, Chief.”

Suddenly he’s all business.

“Don’t play fuckin coy with me. The coke in your pocket. Now.”

She has a moment of sheer panic, thinking that maybe she has completely misinterpreted this situation. Her whole body is tense and still and he just watches her, with no discernible emotion on his face. She shoves her hand in her back pocket and closes it around the vial and when she drops it in his open palm he smirks at her. It’s a look that screams authority—he is in control here and she’s ready to do whatever he tells her to do.

“What happens now?” she whispers.

“That is entirely dependent on you,” he says, and then he smiles so big it scrunches up his whole face. “You gonna share?”

She exhales the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “You’re an asshole, Hopper.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Give me a fuckin heart attack, why don’t you?”

He chuckles and it’s endearing even though she’s still kind of pissed. He’s wearing a full-face smirk. She has no idea how he does that but it’s really fucking hot.

“I’m just fucking with you, Jill.”

He makes his way down off the stool, half drunk and clumsy, and for a minute it seems he might lose his balance. He recovers with some grace before he downs the rest of his whiskey—a little too much for one glug, she thinks, but it doesn’t show on his face. Even drunk as shit, he’s a pretty smooth operator, and now that she can see his ass testing the limits of the fabric of his pants, Jill is feeling him everywhere. She’s ready to do whatever it is Chief Jim Hopper tells her to do.

“Bathroom,” he says. “Two minutes.” He taps the face of his watch twice. “Starting now.”

He walks away and she doesn’t even try not to stare. When the bathroom door closes behind him she whispers a quiet “fuck.” This whole thing seems like the kind of scenario she would think up in the early morning hours, in bed but too fucked up to sleep. The current situation isn’t far from some of the fantasies she’s had about Hopper: the kinky shit with the handcuffs and the roleplay, where she’s been a bad girl and she needs the Chief’s particular brand of punishment.

She scans the room and makes sure to top off everyone who needs it before she heads to the bathroom.

“You’re late,” he says, and then he grabs her hips and backs her into the wall.

He presses his wide body against hers. He’s like a wall of man and she couldn’t move if she wanted to. She doesn’t, though. Not at all, and when he tugs her shirt and bra down and buries his face between her tits she lets out a moan that’s just a bit too loud. He looks up at her and presses a finger to her lips.

“Quiet,” he whispers, and then he takes out the vial.

He examines her breasts and picks his favorite, holding it just hard enough in his hand as he taps out a small mountain of blow. His scruff is rough against her nipple as he dives in nose first and then licks her skin clean. He’s being careless with her stash but she doesn’t care that half of it ends up on the floor because Hopper looks good when he’s messy. He’s lightly powdered from the nose down and he’s sweating out liquor and he’s gone almost completely red in the face. Despite all of it, or maybe because of it, he’s the most attractive man that’s ever laid hands on her. He’s definitely the sloppiest, dirtiest, most unhinged piece of ass she has ever had, but fuck if she can deny him one bit of what he wants, which is, apparently, everything.

“Turn around,” he says, and when she does he starts to grind against her.

She watches him in the mirror as he taps a bump into his palm and presents it to her.

“Your turn,” he says. “Go on.”

He doesn’t have to tell her twice. She snorts hard and licks up the rest. They watch each other in the mirror, and when she starts sucking his fingers into her mouth he closes his eyes and curses. He’s half hard against her now and she reaches around to palm him through his pants. He’s as thick as one would expect him to be and she lets out a little giggle because of course he’s got a big one.

“Find something you like?” he asks.

She releases his fingers with a pop. “Yeah.”

“Meet me at my car in 5 minutes. I’m parked out back.”

“My break isn’t until 12.”

“Take it fucking early, Jill, Jesus.”

“Make it 10.” she says. She squeezes out from under him and pulls her shirt back up. “And wash your face. You’ve got about a kilo stuck in your beard.”           

He laughs and smacks her on the ass. “Ten minutes, Jill.”

She leaves him to get cleaned up and as she walks back up to the bar she scans the room. If anyone noticed anything, they are minding their business. It’s the Harley’s way and she’s thankful for it.

***

Hopper leans against the Blazer and lights a second cigarette off his first one. He’d forgotten how much he fucking loves cocaine, which is something that should have stayed forgotten, but it’s too late now. That’s a problem for another time. The immediate problem is the small group of stoners smoking a joint in the woods behind the employee lot. He can hear them giggling like idiots and talking some hippie bullshit about the cosmos or whatever—kids, probably. He wants to run them off but he doesn’t exactly look his best and he’s still got half a chubby in his pants.

His problem-solving skills kick in, almost on autopilot. He opens the car door and turns on his red-and-blues. Within seconds he hears them cursing and scattering and he smiles wide. All in a day’s work, he thinks, and he grinds his cigarette out with his boot and lights another. Finally, some privacy.

Jill comes out right on time and Hopper doesn’t waste a moment getting her in the backseat. This is a quickie, after all. No need to complicate things by talking. She takes care of her top half while he peels her out of her jeans and thong and tosses them aside. She’s already got her hands and her mouth working his cock and it doesn’t take long before he’s more than ready.

“You got a rubber?” she asks.

He does, of course, because he’s an idiot but he’s not stupid, and he rolls it on quick as he can. He licks his fingers and tests her out and she’s more than good to go. She’s got her legs up to the ceiling and she’s begging him to fuck her quick and dirty but he enters her slowly because he’s a big boy and it’s just the kind thing to do. He may be an asshole but he’s not that kind of asshole. She reaches around and grabs two handfuls of his ass, pulling him into her, and when he’s all the way there she lets out a long, low moan.

It comes as a surprise to him that he wants to make her come, so instead of jackhammering into her until he blows, he slows down a bit and throws a little swerve into it. She’s been generous with him; he wants to return the favor. From the sound of her, it would appear to be working, and when she tells him “harder harder” he does what he’s told. She comes, furiously rubbing her clit and riding his cock from below and it’s loud enough to wake the dead but he doesn’t care. His animal brain has taken control and everything is tits and pussy and his thick cock sliding in and out of her. The Blazer is steamy and everything smells like sex and he’s grunting and humping like some sort of wild bear in the woods. He’s at the tipping point when he hears her say, “Fuck me, baby. Come on my face.”

He stops but stays inside her. “What?”

“I want you to come on me.”

“Jesus,” he says, but he pulls out and rips the condom off anyway.

She sits up and opens her mouth wide and he jerks himself the rest of the way with the tip of his cock on her tongue.

“Get ready,” he says, and she closes her eyes and sticks her tongue all the way out.

He pulls back an inch and aims at her tonsils and comes in three short spurts. The first one hits its mark and the other two stripe her face from cheek to chin. She swallows and licks her lips like she’s hungry for more. Hopper can’t hold himself up another second and he falls back on his heels, back resting against the door. He manages to find a napkin to give her to clean the rest of him off of her.

“Thanks,” she says. “That was… something.”

“It sure the hell was.”

Hopper can barely breathe or stand but he wants a fucking cigarette so he manages to get his pants back on. He spills out of the car before she’s even dressed. He apologizes for it, though, so it’s okay.

She crawls around the Blazer half naked trying to find the bottom half of her clothing and once she gets herself together she joins him outside for a smoke. They puff away in silence but it’s not awkward. There’s simply nothing left to say. She takes one last drag and flicks her cigarette away.

“See you tomorrow, Chief,” she says, and she walks back inside.

Hopper knows before the door even closes behind her that he won’t be coming here tomorrow, or the next day, or any day after that. His days of drinking at Harley’s are over. It was fun while it lasted, but he’s ruined it like he ruins everything. He gets in the driver’s seat and he knows he’s too fucked up to drive but he turns the key in the ignition anyway, because who’s going to stop him? This is Hawkins. He’s Jim Fucking Hopper. No one in this town can touch him.

 

           

           

 


End file.
